(SEMI HIATUS) I CREATE MYSELF. (autoplay)

‘ blushin’! am not! ‘ 

    false indignance accompanies a brief flutter of long     fingers over the breast bone (right heart instead of     left), though this gesture dissolves into boyish preening     when rose decides to give him attention. his fingers fall,     grasping at air, seeking something, finding naught. it is     nearly feline, the way his digits curl back into his palm. 

   ‘ s’pose so. i ought to get dressed. don’t like runnin’      ‘bout in jammies–’member when i did tha’? wasn’t      too bad, then, but got a bit drafty. y’ hungry? there’s      food in th’ kitchen… though, y’ know tha’ already. ‘  a      hand passes to cuff at the back of his own neck,      passing over arched vertebrae. he’s rambling. it usually       doesn’t concern him.  ‘ i’d offer t’ make y’ somethin’,       but i haven’t … properly cooked anythin’ since i was ..       oh, 89? ‘ 

‘ yeah, you are. righ’ ’ -- a gentle tap of an outstretched forefinger to a flushed cheek, to the sharp relief of bone beneath -- ‘ there. an’ a bad liar, too. ’

nothing truly scathing in it -- not even close. rose’s grin broadens and brightens, sparking in her eyes, warming them over ; they’ve been cold, those eyes, and dark. cold like his have been, can be. but there’s no sign of that, here, her demeanour light and warm and free, more akin to a cub’s playful wrestling than the lioness gone to war.

‘ ought to. when’ve you ever done what you ought to -- ? ‘s no rush, is there? ’

( maybe he doesn’t like being less than put together, but she’s not complaining -- and it makes the tardis feel a whit more like home, too. )

a wry comment comes to mind that sounds suspiciously like her mother half-jesting something about seeing an older man, but rose holds it back, teeth nipping the end of her tongue. there’s never truly been any need to put words on it, on this, on them. he knows.

doesn’t stop her from proffering another teasing jab in its place, though.

‘ if i wanted breakfast in bed, i’d’ve stayed there. when’d you last eat -- ? ’

‘ -- you’re blushing. ’

it’s spoken through a cheeky grin, unquantified, unqualified uncertainty fading even quicker than it came ; teasing, and unabashedly, unrepentantly fond. ( rose wants to brush the pad of her thumb over the warming tint, suddenly, but settles for nudging her fingers into artlessly tousled hair instead, grin blossoming into a giggle, light and airy in her chest, when she meets a slight knot. )

-- they so rarely get mornings like this. it’s not that she doesn’t love the travelling, the new planets, the dizzy rush of it ; she loves that second most. but there’s a different edge to seeing the doctor lax and at ease and happy, here, with her, and maybe it makes her a little selfish that she’s so pleased with herself that she gets to have him, but he doesn’t seem to mind too much.

ruffling fingers venture back out of tangled locks, a light slip of rose’s digits from temple to cheekbone and away perhaps accidental, perhaps not.

  blue stare flits to the off-color kit he presumes is to hold   medical items, mistrust still wrapping his limbs taut and   his willingness to comply blunt and coiled. however, she’s   fed him, has given him no reason to loathe her, and rather   more to trust. even so, he is wary, and skittish, ready to bolt   at the slightest given sign.  

     the explanation feels hollow. everyone wants something.      gold, food, weapons, armor, girls, boys. why was she an      exception? after a long moment of quiet, apathetic conte-      mplation, robb lifts a slow hand to the laces at his collar      bone and unthreads the first row, then the second, and      the third. the jerkin peels away, blood-soiled grey under-      shirt sticking to the flesh. it is ragged with tears, open      cloth and a heavy amount of sanguine gore. 

      robb tugs the cloth over his head and lets it pile at his feet.       it is obvious, now, without the soft padding of leather and       cotton, he is underweight and damaged–shoulders still       broad, but underfed to the point that the bones push tents       against the skin, and the battlefield of wounds remain litter-       ed over the body, all at various degrees of heal. those in the       limbs have sealed without issue, clean, puckered tissue; those       nearest the abdomen are still red, though not infected, even if       tender and agitated. those burrowed into the back are entirely       dependent. some have grown white and hard, healed, and       others are almost near weeping, still soiled with blood. 

             ‘ bolts. ‘

       rose’s breath catches in her throat, as cloth unfurls        and marred skin peels away from fabric. blimey, that’s        even worse than i thought. who did this to you? her eyes        widen in spite of herself -- though she’s, by now, no stranger        to the darker, decaying underbelly of the universe, she’s        nonetheless visibly startled. how are you still alive? hangs        unspoken on her tongue, and her teeth sink into the tender        muscle to hold back the question, thoughts flitting about        like so many trapped, anxious moths.

       ( and somewhere, in the bonebox of her chest, a WOLF howls. )

       the initial shock fades, replaced by something almost        calculated -- eyes skimming over the wounds to place        which are in the most urgent need of attention as she        settles to her knees for a better look, sun-kissed locks        brushing at her cheekbones when her head inclines        slightly ; she doesn’t bother severing her focus to push        them back behind her ears. i’m not a doctor, i’m not even        anyone, why’d i have to be the one to find him? a needless,        futile question that will do neither of them any good. alright,        then. let’s see.

       a pack of antiseptic wipes are drawn out and torn open        between rose’s teeth, one extracted carefully between        tapered fingertips ; she chews at her lip, then, considering        -- from the way he reacts even to her voice and her nearness,        she’s not about to touch him without plenty of advance warning.

       ( she has been blunt and almost callous in her younger        years, more foolish than this -- there’s nothing for me        here ; nothing? -- but all the pain of a universe, it hurts,        i think you need a doctor, has made her both feral and        kind. )